Yoga. Is. Kicking. My. Butt.
It's funny, we'll be working on an asana in class and each time, it's a little dance. Do we like each other? Is there chemistry? Will my leg hold, or do I need to sit this one out on the bleachers? How many blocks can a girl put under her hands before she's pretty much just standing upright? I shimmy in, and the asana either dances with me (like my 2 second crow pose today) or it says, "Babe I'm not feelin' it. I'm going to a bar with my friends. Maybe later? Gimme your number, I'll call you," (like handstand). And when something is above and beyond what I can handle right now the amazing and talented Zhenja LaRosa will come over and give me something different to do, because nobody puts Baby in the corner.
In other news I got a cane. It is not cool and does not have a skull or a claw or both, sadly. It is grey plastic and metal and geriatric. I'm only supposed to use it around the apartment and still use the crutch outside. But it is a sign that my leg is getting stronger.
It's been a Houses of the Holy kind of week. Somehow it makes me feel less gimpy walking around NYC still on a crutch when Robert Plant is wailing in my head.
Oh Oh Oh - and the most biggest dealest news of all that I keep forgetting to write - guess who was in New York Magazine's Top Doctors issue? Dr. Buly, natch. The man. Who just sent me his bill yesterday. Yikes. Do you think the insurance company will be impressed enough to pay for it?